


Lightness of Your Smile

by jetblacklilac



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Period Drama AU, robbaery is minor btw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-22 19:46:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18534265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jetblacklilac/pseuds/jetblacklilac
Summary: Jon finally meets his wife; the renowned icy Princess.





	1. Chapter 1

“Prince Jon.” The butler formally announced. His arm is stretched and created a spacious entrance for Jon to have and closes the oaken door as soon as he passes the man.   
  


Darkness was the notably astute theme of the chosen room for their first meeting. He could scarcely makeup odd shapes of furniture arranged around the room, the softness beneath the soles of his shoes indicated that the entire floor is padded with some exotic rug, and there is a climbing structure of a fireplace attached to the wall on his far right. It didn’t have enlightening embers to ameliorate the image of the room he is situated in.    
  


What irked him out the most in this pin drop silent room is that he is fairly certain that he is alone. His eyes, finally adjusting to the ambiguous environment, could see no humane form anywhere. His hands reached out to glide on the smooth furniture to navigate him in the room, attempting to find the jester who is a sadist to the guest of their castle. By his estimation, he’d say he arrived nearly halfway in the room.   
  


“The assumption that men are admiringly conforming to harsh surroundings in their hunts is fast dwindling, Prince Jon.”  A silvery voice floated around that he twisted, trying to find the origin of the voice but his knee collided with a sharp edge of a table that he bit his cheek to swallow his yelp of pain.   
  


Only now had he noted a long and expansive window with a wide seat and red cushions before the large glass, was an angel. In Jon’s first thought of her was she had ethereal beauty of God’s guardians. He observed her, in quiet reverence, in how the moon accentuated her pale skin and her lips were now pinker. The silver dress she wore glimmered under the waning glower of the moon, its diamonds gleaming as though they were the only source of light in the room.   
  


Her copper like hair is pulled back and twisted into a humble chignon intertwined with cloth strips of gold and silver. She had intelligent sapphire eyes like she has predicted each of the moves he has made so far. The thick cotton of her shawl prevented Jon to trace the litheness of her body much to his dismay.   
Jon blinked, stupidly noting how her lips like strokes full of young strawberries curved to one side out of bemusement. “Princess Sansa, it is an honour to gaze upon your beauty. Though this is a common knowledge amongst men, you have exceeded any descriptions of you.” He greeted. He watches in puzzlement as she merely bobs her head and not conventionally hold her hand out for him to kiss.   
  


“Good eve, Prince Jon. I do apologize for meeting in this humoristic predicament. My study room is void of light for my candles burnt out and I have requested my chaperone to fetch me newly lit ones.” She explains. Her eyes widen a fraction at how verbal she has been and she settles her gaze on the golden rug set out across the floor.    
  


“It seems that she is nowhere in sight and I am to keep you company, princess.” Jon said and he felt a hard thud in his chest in seeing warmth bleeding through her cheeks and a smile tugging at the very corners of her mouth.    
  


“Lady Brienne.” A butler calls out. A slash of light on the floor reveals a tall woman of milky complexion and short blonde thick hair, walks to the princess. But, not before she curtsies in front of him.   
  


Sansa tilts her head to the right where her chaperone stood. He couldn’t help but admire the column of elegance she presents and the thick of her lashes distracts Jon as it brushes against the fullness of her cheeks. Her mouth moves, to something he couldn’t decipher for the comparison of rose petals to this sight cannot escape his admiring train of thoughts.   
  


“Why don’t we amble about in the gardens?” He suggested. He hoped that his words expressed practiced interest and not of the genuine kind.   
  


Lady Brienne’s red lips twisted at that. “Prince, we are about to dine in the halls. After we eat, we shall have a walk in the gardens.” She counter proposed with a small smile of approval.    
  


Jon faces his future bride with a courteous bow and lets the butler lead him out of the room and into his chamber.   
  


And still, he hasn’t kissed her hand.


	2. His Winter Rose

As promised, after dinner, a small fleet of guards loosely circled around them as the princess walks beside him and their chaperone not so far behind yet enough to give them a semblance of privacy in conversing.   
  


The pale light of the moon spilled over the scenery of plants and flowers. Grass was primly cut that it could not tickle their ankles and there was a stunning marble fountain at the centre of it all. Trees of various shapes and width planted vastly with their leaves swaying to nature’s song. Flowers of either exotic or of local origin were beautifully showcased in long lines of it or in odd rectangular shape of the shrubs they were in.    
  


Jon studied the enthralling beauty at his side. He recalled the numerous whispered rumours that he has heard when he first arrived here. He pondered on the insistence that this princess’ soul is as dark as the night.     
  


“ _ You cannot distinguish her from a block of ice!” _ __   
  


_ “My, I am not certain to what could assure us she has a heart at all.” _ __   
  


_ “I pity the handsome prince who is to wed her! Such a prude and a frigid woman she is.” _ __   
  


“What were you reading in your study room?” He said in askance. A look her way told him that she hadn’t expected a conversation to bubble between them. Their hands were so close that he could feel his hand grazing hers. She pulls her hands to the front of her dress and rigidity straightens her spine.    
  


“A book I found in Father’s library.” She answered as simple as one can. She continues to walk along his intentionally slow pace. At this vantage point, the curve of her nose and the fullness of her lips branded themselves in Jon’s mind.    
  


There was an evident aflutter in her steps as they resume in walking towards the astounding fountain just a few feet from them. She hasn’t uttered a word as she sat on the smooth round of the fountain. With refined imagery Sansa beholds him, Jon discovers that she is a resplendent princess and he can feel excitement humming in his bones with the thought of marriage with her. Admittedly, a rare occurrence in the royal monarchy but happens nonetheless.   
  


He slowly saunters to her. He caught sight of a brightly coloured rose and plucked it from the shrub of other roses. He stood before her and offered the flower. “Even a rose cannot compete with your beauty, Princess.” He says and sits next to her. The velvet like gown brushed against his thigh.

 

It didn’t escape him how Lady Brienne seated herself next to him as she continued, with feigned interest, in reading a historical book.   
  


“Are you also implying that the roses’ piercing thorns cannot compete with mine?” Sansa questioned with a hum as her dainty fingers trailed the petals of the rose.   
  


Sansa eyes her with an incredulous expression. “Do they hurt the people who appreciate you?”  He inquired. 

 

“Yes, yet some people are impervious to my innate aegis.”  She responded with almost a teasing tone if not for her vacant face and her stiff composure has not softened. 

 

Curiosity burned at the tip of his tongue, tempting him to ask her why there are sadistic rumours of her apathetic nature. But, this is only their first of many, so he nods and continues to watch the wind sway the leaves.    
  


“May I be frank for a moment, princess?” Jon questioned as he notes a curve on the path from the blooming purple flowers that stemmed out beautifully and twined with their leaves.   
  


Sansa merely nodded.   
  


“Since we were infants and a marriage has been struck, I have spent quite a time conjuring up images of what my wife would look like. At times, I would get lost in the maze of halls filled with paintings of women. Time felt non-existent as I try to debate on who looks like you the most.” He admitted with a boyish smile. None of the young immortalized women held a flame to the true beauty of his wife.   
  


“You must have an ample of free time to fantasizing about me. What of your plans for our reign when we are married?” She inquired with her voice could be the best orchestra to his ears.    
  


The word of matrimony felt like honey on his tongue. It was probably because the princess beside him that sweetened the notion of marriage even more. 

 

“The conventional agendas of ensuring our kingdoms have equilibrium in every aspect we know.” He respectfully answers. Though childish notions of them flourish in his mind, he knew that the sole foundation of their union is for their kingdoms to prosper.    
  


Her hands wrapped around the rose more, almost caringly if he had to be sentimental. “That is an assuring promise, my prince.” She replied. 

  
Her personalized nickname for him made Jon smile. His cheeks might be feeling numb whenever he is in vicinity of her, but he doesn’t mind.

 

He had the intention of saying more romantic praises, but Lady Brienne stood up and announced that the night is darker and they should be asleep.   
  


As they arrived at her room, Jon secretly memorized the steps from his to Sansa’s, the guards position themselves at the corridor and Lady Brienne retires to her room. 

 

He bows to her. “Good night, Princess.” He whispers with a small smile.   
  


Sansa approaches him and raises her hand and her fingers drift across his jaw. The gifted rose is close to her chest as he witnesses her mouth curling into a small smile. He could say that her open affection for him could be a fruitful promise ahead, but he conjectures that she is too shy for his forwardness. “Goodnight my prince.” She murmurs and slips away just before he can utter a response and the door close.   
  


Jon walks down the dark halls and his hand ghosts on the side of his face where she caressed.    
  


And he couldn’t help but grin maddeningly. A touch on the face surely outweighs a chaste kiss on her hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay or nay?


	3. Unfinished Portrait

Crochet is one of Sansa’s past time; not that Margaery or Arya can share their friend’s enthusiasm.    
  


They sat in a vacant room with the fireplace crackling in its regulated flames. The afternoon heat radiated the room and spilled on the exotic rug beneath their shoes. Lady Brienne is near the window, reading her book silently but vigilantly watching over the young women.    
  


“Where is our cousin, Sans? Surely he is half mad without you by his side.” Arya taunted with a quirked smile. She was a particular beauty with her mousy curls tied away from her face with a heavy braid down her shoulder. Her face was kind with sprinkled freckles and fulgent coffee eyes. 

 

She’s seated across of the princess and a wooden table sits in the middle of the room.    
  


“You mock me so.” Sansa mutters in agitation. She poured her attention on the cloth on her hands. The colourful string of needle pierced through the thin material and she continued to fill the canvas with her intended scenery.    
  


The Tyrell giggled. She, a master in this art, places it on her lap and observes Sansa’s increasingly antsy hands that she could no longer concentrate on what she does. “But, where is Prince Jon? I assumed the objective of his stay is to secure your marriage with him. And with how devoted he is, I deem that he could be Shakespeare underneath all those princely manners and golden doublets.” 

 

The half-done crochet is splayed out tauntingly on her lap with the rainbow of yarn trailing down the floor along with the flow of her flowery dress. 

 

“I know not where he is nor do I have concerns of him.” She remarked with a hard tone.    
  


Dismissing the callous response, the countess sips her lemonade and smiles amusingly. “Such a funny thing to say when you have a rose petal as a bookmark for your readings and we all know he presented you a lovely rose those days ago.” Arya declared with a smirk. Her hands spread on her skirts, blatantly ignoring the unfinished project.

 

Even at a distance, their chaperone could see the stark redness of the princess’ cheeks. Sansa no longer feignedly utilised her crochet. Instead, she retrieved the book, opened it, and she held it up. 

 

“It was rather convenient to make use of it. If I were to say, admire him so dearly, I would’ve let the rose be in public display and not be kept between pages of a book.” She declared with almost a growl and her eyes trailed along to the words of the book. Her hand noticeably tightened on the petal.   
  


“So, discard it. I am certain that we can acquire a better one.” Margaery proposed. Her sight was consumed of the hand stitched garden on her lap, but she noted how stiff Sansa sat. “That petal will diminish before the next moon comes. I suggest you get rid of it. Lady Brienne and I can aid you in choosing a less lively choice.” She nonchalantly and reasonably said.    
  


“Or, ask the prince for another rose just for your reading pleasures.” Arya taunted as she sat near the fireplace to pour herself a cup of tea. She and the brunette giggled at Sansa, the ever reclusive and aloof royalty, blush so prominent that the roses’ colour could be based off of this.   
  


The stammer of response Sansa did only strengthened the unsaid things she refused to acknowledge. There would’ve been more futile debates if not for the doors opening and an announcement that startled the princess that she nearly dropped her book.   
  


“Princes Jon and Robb.” A loud voice declared followed by a click of a door.    
  


The three women stood when the two aforementioned men arrived in their bubble of serenity.  The tall man with messy auburn hair, sky like eyes, and a charming smile went to his wife and kissed her cheek. They both sat and talked in hushed tones.   
  


Sansa sat down as Prince Jon seated himself beside her. The heat of him burned through the heavy fabric of her gown. “Good afternoon, my prince.” She greeted and she glanced at him. A quick survey of surprise on his face made her smile.    
  


“Good-good afternoon, princess.” Jon shakily greeted back as he leaned back on the sofa but still maintained a formal posture. “I hope that my presence does not serve as a diversion from the book you are reading.” He says with sincerity that she cannot accuse him of sarcasm or demanding her attention since he wanted it.    
  


She closed the book, mindful of hiding the petal from his view, and placed the book on the table behind her. “What book do you speak of?” She asks with a shy smile that made the prince’s mouth dent with dimples at the corners of it. 

  
“My, my, is the ice princess flirting? Darling, do my eyes deceive me or is my little sister charming her husband to be?” Robb provoked with a guffaw. He had his arm slung around the curve of Margaery’s waist and they both were beaming at the lovely sight unfurling before them.    
  


Sansa scowled at that and pulled away from Jon. “Is it your endeavour to witness such flirtation and finally practice it on my friend?” She retorted.    
  


Robb and Margaery’s mixed laughter fluttered in the room. Jon stared admiringly at her and their chaperone was grinning behind her thick book. 

 

“Let me assure you that we do an extension from flirtation.” He suggested and laughed once more when Margaery feebly hit his chest with her cheeks coloured to the blatant comment.   
  


“You do crochet?” Jon intervened with a curious tone that Sansa could not ignore. He had a light in his eyes at the thought of her stitching the beautiful image in his hands. No matter that it is unfinished. “It seems to be the gardens in the cloak of night time.” He guessed.   
  


It was a miracle to how he did not connect the conspicuous clues and lets her hide the unfinished crochet away. She could already see Margaery brightly grinning at that and Robb toys with her French braid.    
  


“Art is subjective.” Sansa dismissively said.    
  


“The King has graciously permitted that I teach you archery. Or-or if you know of its skill, we can have a tournament between us.” Jon offered with a measured tone and his words were mindful of what her response could be that Sansa nearly pinched his cheek at his efforts.   
  


“You never taught me archery.” Margaery grunted in mild irritation and she snuggled against her husband’s side.   
  


Robb leaned to her and kissed the side of her head. “I would never trust you with a bow and an arrow. The frequent and indignant outburst from you, my love, can physically leave me in a serious predicament.” None of his words worked as she did not respond and ignore him so loudly. He petted the ends of her braid. “How about I attempt in painting you?”    
  


The duchess laughs. “Am I allowed to make a mockery of your masterpiece?”    
  


Robb feigned a sigh. “I supposed you can.” He said and stood up. They both bid good byes and left the room.    
  


“Why did it occur that you could teach me archery?” Sansa questioned. 

 

It was known that a woman shouldn’t be near such a sport. Her dress would be dusted in dirt. Her perfectly trimmed and manicured hands would know the roughness of wood that no woman should feel in her lifetime. Yet, she always has been curious of it.   
  


“I noticed that when you and the duchess witness us play, you have a determined expression. As though you imagine yourself doing it, and since you are a clever and keen woman, archery fits you so perfectly.” Jon answered respectfully and lowered his eyes, his cheeks blooming with heat at how expressive he was; an attribute she wished she had right now.   
  


Sansa reached to his hand and intertwined their hands. “It would be an honour for me to be your student in this.” She replied so soft of appreciation. Whether for him or his offer, Sansa would logically favour the latter. But, her adored look said otherwise.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im legitimately confused and flattered to people reading this fic

**Author's Note:**

> Idk what this is but I’m planning to expand this (depends if this is agreeable to whoever reads this fic mao) comments and kudos are appreciated folks!


End file.
